Bad Things

‘You got me. I think they're all called Raul.’

‘What happened to the alarm?’

‘Nothing. It went off like it was supposed to. It was still going when I got there.’

‘Isn't someone from the alarm company supposed to come check it out? Or phone you, at least?’

Ted looked embarrassed. ‘Stopped paying for that service a while back. It's eight hundred a year, and we've never needed it before.’

By now we were decelerating toward the right-hand turn off the highway.

‘How bad is the damage?’

Ted shrugged, raising both hands from the wheel in a gesture evoking the difficulty of describing degrees of misfortune, especially when however much ‘bad’ is still going to cause a day of fetching and form-filling and expense that a guy just doesn't fucking need.

‘It's not so terrible, I guess. I just don't get it. There's signs on all three doors – front, back, kitchen – saying no money's left on the premises overnight. So what the hell? Huh? What kind of fuckhead comes all the way over here in the middle of the night, just to screw up someone else's day?’

‘Maybe they didn't believe you about the money,’ I said. ‘Fuckheads can be strange like that.’

As the car slowed into the lot I saw Becki's car ‘parked’ down the end. ‘Don't tell me Kyle's here already?’

Ted laughed, and for a moment looked less harried and disappointed with mankind in general.

‘I had to call Becki to work out how to get your phone number off the database. I told her she didn't have to do anything, but she came right over.’

He pulled the pickup to come to rest next to his daughter's vehicle.

‘You called the cops, I assume?’

‘Been and gone. They sent their two best men, as I'm sure you can imagine. Not convinced either of them aced the “How to pretend you give a shit” course, though. And I've comped a lot of appetizers and drinks for both those assholes in the past.’

We got out and I followed Ted to the restaurant. He led me around the side to the back door, the one you'd enter if you'd been out on deck with a drink before coming in for dinner.

The remains of the external door there was hanging open, most of the panes broken. The slats that once held the glass in place lay in splinters on the floor. Becki was hunkered down in the short corridor beyond the doorway, working a dustpan and hand brush.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘It doesn't look so bad.’

‘Not any more,’ she said, straightening up. She'd evidently been at the job a while, and a couple of blonde hairs were stuck to her forehead. She looked pissed off. ‘The guys are still working in the back.’

I went through the second door – which had been more gently forced – and into the main area of the restaurant. The Pelican's register and reservations system runs on a newish Apple Mac with an external cash drawer. The latter had been unsuccessfully attacked with a chisel and/or crowbar. I looked at this for a while and then headed into the back, where the brigade was tidying the kitchen.

‘They messed it up some in here,’ Ted said, unnecessarily, as he joined me. It looked like one or two people had really made a meal of throwing things around. ‘And it seems like we got a machine missing.’

‘Juicer,’ confirmed one of the cooks – the guy who'd stared at me on the way out of the lot last night. He looked less moody now, and I could guess why. He and his fellow non-Americans would not have enjoyed the police visit earlier, most likely spending it on an extended cigarette break half a mile down the road. They would also be very aware of being high on most people's list of suspects – either for doing the job themselves, or passing the opportunity to an accomplice, along with the information that any alarm would go unanswered.

‘Kind of a dumb break-in,’ I said, directly to him. ‘I mean, everybody knows there's no cash left here, right?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ the cook said, nodding quickly. ‘We all know that. But some people, you know? They think it's fun, this kind of thing.’

‘Probably just kids,’ I said, looking past him to the anteroom off the side where staff changed and hung their coats. ‘Anyone lose anything out of there?’

‘Well, no,’ Ted said. ‘Nobody here in the middle of the night, right? The lockers were empty.’

‘Duh,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

I turned, and saw Becki standing out in the restaurant looking at me.

I have no formal training in fixing things, but common sense and good measuring will get most of the job done. My dad had game at that kind of thing, and I spent long periods as a child watching him. Ted and I measured the broken panes and the wood that needed replacing, he listened to my instructions for a couple more items, then drove off to get it all from a hardware store in Astoria. Meanwhile Becki headed out to get a replacement cash drawer from a supplier over in Portland that she'd tracked down on the Net.

Ted was gone well over an hour. I sat on deck and slowly drank a Diet Coke. I was feeling an itch at the back of my head, but didn't want to yield to it. I knew that if I was back at the beach house, however, as normal at this time of day, then I'd already have done so. I also knew it would have been dumb, however, and that it was a box in my head I didn't want to open. The smart tactic with actions that don't make sense is to not do them the first time. Otherwise, after that, why not do them again?

Nonetheless I found myself, ten minutes later, at the till computer. The web browser Becki had been using was still up on screen. I navigated to my Internet provider's site and checked my email, quickly, before I could change my mind and fail to yield to impulse. There was nothing there.

That was good. I wouldn't be checking again.

Eventually Ted got back with the materials and I started work. The external door had been pretty solid, and so kicking the panes out had badly splintered the frame around the lock. I levered the damaged side off under Ted's watchful eye.

‘You know what you're doing, right?’

‘Kinda,’ I said. ‘More than you do, anyhow.’

‘I get what you're saying,’ he said, and went inside.

I worked slowly but methodically, which is the best way of dealing with the subversive ranks of inanimate objects. Ted proved to have a thorough selection of tools, which helped, as did having gone through the process of figuring out how to replace Gary's screen door a few months back. Security and good sense dictated replacing the door with something more robust, but Ted was adamant it needed to look the way it had, for tradition's sake. I'd specified that he at least buy super-toughened glass, also some metal strips that I intended using to strengthen the off-the-rack door.

While I was working through that portion of the job, Becki returned. I was ready for a break from hammering and sawing so I went to give her a hand with the cash drawer, which was not light. In the end she let me carry it by myself, though she hovered encouragingly in the background and went off to fetch me a soda as a reward, while I levered it into position and bolted it in place.

She got sidetracked with some issue in the kitchen, and I was back at work on the door by the time she returned with a Dr Pepper stacked with ice.

She stood around for a while and watched me working, without saying anything.

‘That was a nice thing you did,’ she said, after maybe five minutes.

‘What's what?’

‘You know. Signalling to the cooks that you thought they didn't have anything to do with it.’

‘They didn't.’

I concentrated on manoeuvring a pane of glass, making sure it was bedded properly before screwing a piece of the metal brace-work securely into place. When I turned round, Becki was still looking at me, one eyebrow slightly raised.

I smiled. ‘What?’

‘You haven't always been a waiter, have you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But it's what I am now.’